


An Interlude

by 50251sid



Category: The Borgias, The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50251sid/pseuds/50251sid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cesare and Lucrezia enjoy a gratifying time together</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avalonmedieval](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avalonmedieval/gifts).



Lucrezia is waiting for him in the restaurant booth where he told her he would meet her. He is late, and she skews her mouth into an ironic smile, because she knows it’s on purpose, so he can make his Grand Entrance.

_Vanity, thy name is Cesare!_

In truth, though, no man ever had more to be vain about.

She swirls chardonnay, satiny with French oak notes, around in her glass. Newly twenty-one, she is still unaccustomed to drinking in public.

There is a stir, a buzz. Ah! He has arrived.

She looks up, to enjoy the Grand Entrance.

_Fuck!_

He is beautiful. There is simply no other way to describe him.

Six feet two inches tall, thick, dark brown hair brushing his shoulders, his face a perfect composition of sculpted planes and angles, square jaw with a light scruff of beard, bow-shaped lips and those eyes, those large, mesmerizing hazel eyes that rivet you, invite you to drown yourself in them, reassuring you that your death will be a pleasant one. His long, supple body is dressed in black Michael Bastian, perfectly fitted to emphasize his broad shoulders, lean torso and long legs. His wrist watch is Bvlgari. His shirt, single needle tailored, is immaculate, snowy white. His cuff links are platinum. His necktie, dark silk, is done in a four-in-hand knot. His Ferragamo shoes are black double monkstrap slip-ons.

Heads, both male and female, snap as he passes by. His pace is leisurely, with just a hint of swagger. He knows he attracts attention. He accepts it as his due.

_No autographs, please._

He slides into the booth across from her.

“Were you waiting long?”

His voice is smooth, velvety.

He knows damn well she’s been waiting, but she shakes her head no. She won’t be tiresome to him. Not tonight.

He signals to the waiter, who responds immediately. Waiters do that for him. He orders a drink, single malt Scotch, neat. It is served to him in a Glencairn glass.

Settled in, he turns his attention to her. She is wearing Chanel, a classic Little Black Dress, with ropes of pearls around her neck. He reaches out to take her hand in his. He has big hands, with long fingers, and he likes that her hands are small, with long nails painted deep red, almost black. Chanel, Rouge Noir. He brings her hand to his mouth and, his eyes locked with hers, sucks voluptuously on her index finger.

She feels it between her legs. She is dazed, transfixed, hypnotized, by lust for this man. This beautiful man. Her brother.

She shifts in the booth, squeezing her thighs together.

“You’ll ruin the taste of your Scotch,” she says lightly.

He isn’t fooled by her attempt to hide her desire for him. He slowly draws her finger deeply into his mouth one more time, and then pulls it out just as languidly before he releases her hand.

He gazes frankly, appraisingly, at her, taking in her hair, the color of the moon, which tumbles over her shoulders and curves over her forehead, emphasizing her blue-grey eyes. Her skin is ivory, with a rose blush over her rounded cheeks. She has painted her full lips with deep red lipstick.

He leans forward intimately and, beneath the table, slips his hand under her dress. He caresses her thigh, pleased that she is not wearing hosiery, and her skin is smooth all the way up to her silky panties.

“Promise me something, my love,” he murmurs, staring at her red mouth.

“Anything, my darling.”

“Promise me that you’ll take my dick between those gorgeous red lips and suck it dry.”

Startled, she huffs a laugh and shivers at the thought he has conjured up, causing her nipples to harden. She notices that he notices.

The contrast always piques her: Cesare, so elegant and cultivated, so suave and urbane, can be so crude. But she likes that about him, likes his rough side, the primitive Cesare who _wants_ her and _demands_ her and _fucks_ her.

They order dinner but barely taste their food.

She is thinking, remembering…six years ago…

He was twenty when he first came to her room in the middle of the night. Bare chested in cotton sheeting pajama bottoms, he had climbed into her bed and pulled her to him, kissing her hotly, telling her she knew damned well she belonged to him, she was his, and only his, and it was high time she let him have her. As she agreed with him completely, she happily complied, and he took her as by _droit de seigneur_ , greedily, without hesitation, without compunction for either her youth or her state of virginity. His only concession was to wear condoms, which he continued to use until she was old enough for oral contraceptives.

So far as she knows, he has been faithful to her ever since, but she does not care to think about it much. It is not wise to dig beyond the surface with Cesare Borgia. She knows he loves her, knows of his passion for her, knows that just as she belongs to him and him alone, so he belongs to her. Curiously, for all the intensity of his lust for her, he seems to be unfazed by the lure of other women. Oh, they throw themselves at him, no mistaking. Everywhere he goes. And he charms them, with his smile and his beauty and his ability to make them feel as if he finds them fascinating. But then he leaves them and returns to the apartment he shares with Lucrezia and he picks her up and wraps her legs around his hips and fucks her standing up, against the wall, his breathing hoarse beside her ear and his heart pounding against her.

 

“It’s still early, my love. Would you like to go dancing, perhaps?”

She smiles. How generous of him! He would take her dancing, which she loves. But not tonight. Tonight, she intends without delay to keep the promise he asked of her.

“I’ll dance for you at home,” she tells him. “Between the sheets.”

He grins at her.

They stand and he escorts her out, his hand lightly touching the small of her back. Although she is wearing Christian Louboutin shoes with four-inch heels, the top of her head barely comes to his shoulder.

The valet brings around Cesare’s BMW and he helps her climb in. They drive for a short while. Her dress hitches up, exposing a glimpse of her panties.

“Take them off,” he whispers. “For me.”

She raises her hips and slips off her underwear. He reaches across the console and slides his hand high up between her thighs, stroking and probing, then licks the taste of her from his fingers. He takes her hand and rubs it over his crotch.

“Cesare, darling, the sooner we get home, the sooner I can keep my promise.”

“I won’t last that long.”

They enter a park, dark with trees. He pulls to the side of the road.

“Please, honey.”

Kneeling on the car seat, she unzips his trousers and pulls out his cock, velvety and yet rock-hard, and runs her full, red lips over the tip. Opening her mouth, she takes in his entire length, sliding from tip to base and back again. He grasps her hair with one hand and cups her pussy with the other one, pushing two fingers inside of her, into the liquid silk of her vault.

He pulses his hips as if fucking her mouth, and she keeps up her steady movement until she feels his cock twitch and then he comes, like a flood, like a tidal wave, a river bursting its banks.

“Fuck,” he moans. “Fuck fuck _fuck!_ I love you, Baby. I fucking love you.”

She straightens up and reaches into the glove box for the paper napkins stashed there and clears her mouth. She would love to swallow his semen, but there is simply too much of it, deposited too quickly. He reclines in the driver’s seat, gratified, sated, overwhelmed with love.

“Thank you, my angel,” he whispers, and kisses her.

She smiles at him and gently tucks his dick away, zipping up his pants.

“I love the taste of your cock better than anything else in the world. Are you okay to drive now? I want to go home and be in bed with you and feel you on top of me and inside of me and all over me.”

He starts the car but then turns to her.

“Leave your panties off,” he says. “Keep your legs open so I can look over and see you.”

“You’ll be distracted and wreck the car.”

“I won’t. Please.”

“Only if you promise to keep both hands on the wheel.”

“All right, Cruel Woman. But just you wait till I get you home.”

“I will take that as your promise to me.”

He grins at her and pulls the car onto the road.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Avalonmedieval, I hope you like this little gift.


End file.
